


After Work

by ashen_key



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Banter, Cunnilingus, D/s Vibes, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Femdom, Fingering, Frottage, Hearing Impaired Clint Barton, Intercrural Sex, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-01-30
Packaged: 2017-11-27 13:11:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/662369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashen_key/pseuds/ashen_key
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Natasha is ridiculously attractive when angry, Clint has plans to improve her bad day, pizza is used as bribery, sex is less important than banter, and being very married means knowing your spouse's body very well. </p><p>(Written for the Porn Battle: Fiery Fourteen)</p>
            </blockquote>





	After Work

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to [FiKate](http://archiveofourown.org/users/FiKate/pseuds/FiKate) for assuring me this didn't suck, and to [Anuna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Anuna/pseuds/Anuna) for cheerleading and hand-holding. 
> 
> Written for the [Porn Battle:](http://battle.oxoniensis.org/) [Fiery Fourteen](http://oxoniensis.dreamwidth.org/57050.html), for the prompts:  
> Clint Barton/Natasha Romanoff: _couple, tie, dominance, hands, cunnilingus, fubar, thighs, boots, vulnerable, dressing-up, public place, offering, control_

“I might have to stay late,” Nat said. 

She was in his cubicle, leaning against his desk with several manila folders in her arms; that was the first surprise, given her section was the floor above. Not _much_ of a surprise, because sometimes she ducked down to visit or drag him out to lunch. That was fairly normal. No, the main surprise was that the woman was practically smouldering with anger. 

Smouldering.

If she was a cartoon, there would have been flames flickering in her eyes and her fingers would have been glowing orange with heat. There would have been smoke somewhere, he was sure of it. 

It was (after a brief mental check to be pretty sure she wasn't angry at him) ridiculously hot. 

“Yeah?” is what Clint actually said, the word careful. 

Nat smiled. “You know how Kevin Franklin from R&D has been after trying to be a field agent? My unofficial opinion is that he's entirely incapable of the professionalism and level-headedness required.”

“...What's your official?”

“It's going to have to wait until the urge to put people's heads on spikes has passed.”

Clint slipped his hands into his pockets. “Should I ask what's going on?”

“The current fiancée, in Archives, refuses to help my office assistant with my requests, because Taylor is the _previous_ fiancée and they've decided on a campaign against her. So I've been doing my requests personally.”

Archives was the floor below, and Clint could well imagine what Nat had said to Christine (Christina? The new girl). 

“I'll keep this under consideration,” he informed her, not meaning to sound as amused as he did, and she rolled her eyes. 

“They are making me feel like I'm back in high school. I've never _been_ to high school. And I can't shoot them, because none of them are worth the bullets.” She uncrossed her legs in a movement that had his eyes following the brightly coloured heels of the black ankle-boots she was wearing, and got to her feet. “So,” Nat said, shifting the folders in her arms and stepping closer. Then she reached out to tug at his tie. “Swing by me at five, and I'll let you know if I'm staying late or not.” 

The platformed nature of her boots made her tall enough that she could look him directly in the eyes, and the end of his dark purple tie was getting wrapped around her pale fingers and, yeah, they were in public. In his office. With his team and Foxtrot either studiously ignoring or watching with thinly-hidden smirks. Not that they could see the tie thing from the cubicle walls, but still. 

“Sure. I might tempt you with pizza.” She was being fierce and dominant with a twist of contradiction, because he'd always reacted to the physical vulnerability her heels lent her in ways that made him want to push against it; his wife's everything right now was all _far_ too interesting to drive off and leave her in the office. 

“Ohhh, well,” her expression turned speculative before it shifted to unimpressed. “I'll see. I've got a shitload of work to do thanks to the children. So, five?”

“I'll see you then.” 

She stalked off, except the swing of her hips due to her boots turned it into more of a saunter. A saunter on legs looking like they'd go on forever thanks to the seam running down the back of her stockings, leading the eye down to her heels and back up to the swish of her orange skirt and the barest flash of stockinged thigh, and so sue him, he was a sniper. He _appreciated_ interesting visuals, and Natasha sure provided them. 

Huerte was smirking as he swung his chair around to look at Clint.

“Well, _someone's_ getting laid tonight,” his team-mate said. Fortunately for everyone, he'd waited until Nat had actually left the room. It was Huerte, so Clint just grinned back and didn't give a damn about how smug his expression was. 

Sitting down at his desk, he could smell Natasha's perfume lingering in the air, and his smile turned crooked. 

It was going to be a very long afternoon. 

– – 

At five, he peered into Natasha's shared office, and saw her on the phone. She caught his eye, and shook her head. 

Well, he was expecting that. Time for Plan B. 

By six, he was walking back into her office in time to catch her talking to Taylor.

“-and go _home_ ,” Nat was saying. “Watch something cheerful. Wallace and Gromit? The ponies? Something that _isn't_ Adele. Get some rest, and tomorrow we'll keep working. Okay?”

“I was just so _angry_ -” Taylor sounded very forlorn and very young, and Clint retreated to the tiny kitchenette to give them privacy in the otherwise empty office space. 

A few minutes later, Nat appeared in the doorway. “Hi. Are you here to rescue me?” She was grounded again by wearing the black (boring) flats she kept under her desk, and looked more weary than pissed off. 

“I can do rescuing,” he said, smiling a bit at her. “There might even be a pizza in my car, just waiting to aid in your extraction.”

“Oh, that's a low-blow, Barton.” 

His afternoon fantasies aside, he knew her too well. An evening working in the kind of mood that'd follow her anger would leave Natasha drained and miserable. And, yeah, she'd end up taking it out on him, which he'd like to avoid, but he didn't exactly like seeing her stressed out, either. All was fair in love and domestic peace. 

“Pepperoni pizza,” he added, helpfully. 

“...which'd you eat all of it if I didn't come home.”

Clint thought about it for a moment. “Yep.”

She gave a him a Look, but it was partly amused, so he'd take it as a win. “Fine. Drive me home, Sir Clint.” 

Not that it was that simple. She had to lock files away in the safe, pack up her desk, double-check the office; he didn't mind. Patience aside, he _liked_ just watching her move through the world.

“Curious,” he said once she was sitting down and zipping up her ankle-boots, “was Franklin's and...the new girl in Archives, their campaign against Taylor. Any good?”

“Christina Rossi. And, pretty good for amateurs from what I caught,” Nat admitted. “Out in the field, his talent for gossip would be useful. But part of it is knowing _who_ is an acceptable target, and co-workers?”

“Off-limits,” he finished, and she flashed him a smile.

“Exactly. If you can't trust the people around you...we're fucked. _Not_ to mention it disrupts efficiency.” The weariness was rapidly being fanned back into animation, annoyance snapping at her words. “The last time I was that petty, I was fourteen. And then I felt guilty because I was putting my feelings and emotional gratification before the Revolution,” she added, and he really couldn't help but snort with amusement. 

Natasha closed her eyes then, sighing before getting to her feet. “I need to stop thinking abut this.” 

“Well,” Clint said slowly, very deliberately letting his eyes travel up from her boots to her eyes and lingering all the while, “I've been thinking about that, myself.”

She slung her handbag over her shoulder and arched an eyebrow at him. “Have you.”

“Contingency plans.”

“Oh, is that what the kids are calling it these days.” 

He smiled at her, slow and sure. “Always pays to have a plan.” 

“And what does this plan involve?”

“It's a bit complicated,” he said, standing and strolling the few steps to be within arm's reach. There were cameras, and security guards behind them; he wouldn't touch her, not here. But then, they'd never particularly needed to. “Involves a car-trip. A bit of discussion. Then our apartment, and our bed. Or the couch. It's a plan with options.” 

She was smiling now, just a bit. Just enough. “And what does this discussion entail, Agent Barton?”

“Anything you want.” 

– – 

The drive home was taken up by the occasional mundane discussion about the week's plans and a more thoughtful discussion about how they'd run a bar in a Martian colony. Pretty normal. Except that Natasha mixed up her musing with things like, “I want you to eat me out until I can't remember what language I'm supposed to be begging in.” She was smiling as she said it, self-depreciating at the porno line and completely unashamed, all at once. 

He could live with that.

– – 

“You,” Nat said, putting the pizza box on the kitchen counter before turning around, “are one of the most perverse men I've ever met.” 

She was slightly taller than him now, having left her boots on as she'd walked past him into their apartment. On another day, he'd have been annoyed – she'd lectured him enough about shoes inside, and he'd actually remembered to take his off at the door today – but instead, he studied her with an amused smile.

“Yeah?”

“Yes. A lot of guys get a kick out of women in heels because suddenly we're taller and thus more dominating. But not you.” 

“You're taller,” he agreed easily. “It's hot.”

“Why?” The note in her voice was a tease more than anything else. 

“It's...different. Interesting.” Clint shifted his weight and strolled forward a few steps, stopping when she raised an eyebrow at him. 

“Uh-huh.” She canted her head to the side, the speculative look she'd given him hours earlier back. “How hungry are you?”

He grinned. 

Nat rolled her eyes. “Non-metaphorically, you dork.”

“Not that hungry.”

“Then get over here,” she said, reaching out to give his tie a sharp yank. Clint obeyed. He swiftly moved in, shoving her against the counter and catching her mouth with his. Nat flung her free hand around his neck for stability, her other hand keeping a hold of his tie between them. She kissed him back, giving as good as she was getting, and she tasted faintly of her lipstick. She was trapped between him and the counter, off-balance and still seeking to control the kiss. 

The thing about Nat was that she always got her control back, but god it was hot on the occasions she told him to make her work for it. Her hips twisted against his, and he dropped his mouth to her neck as he pressed his thigh between hers. Her legs parted easily, and she let go off his tie to wrap her arm around his back, pulling him closer. 

“That bad a day, huh?” he said into her neck with a muttered laugh.

“Most guys,” Nat replied, rocking herself against him, fingers digging into his back as her balance wavered, “wouldn't be thinking that.” 

Clint dropped his hand to bunch up her skirt, palming her thigh with a smirk. “Right, you missed me, I'm amazingly hot...” He found the top of her thigh-high stockings and the garter-clip, because of course there was a garter-clip. He couldn't remember what he'd been doing this morning when she'd been getting dressed, but was suddenly glad that he'd been otherwise engaged. The day would have _dragged_ if he'd known what she was wearing under her skirt.

“I missed you. You're amazingly hot. I think you promised to distract me?” Nat's fingers slid from the back of his neck to his jaw, pressing up in a silent command. Lifting his head, he kissed her mouth again, and despite her words, it's sweeter than before. Her fingers smoothed out to cup the side of his face, and her movements slowed to gentle shifting against him. It's all nice and slow, but the abrupt change of pace didn't do anything about the tension that had been gradually, steadily, building since he walked into his cubicle and found her leaning against his desk. 

Well, if the lady wanted to be distracted...

Clint shifted, dropping his other hand to her thigh to get a good hold before he lifted her just enough to get her oh-so-fine ass on the counter. Her breath hitched and her right leg moved to hook around his waist, the arm around his back tightening to keep her from falling backwards. 

“Hi,” Nat said, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. He didn't reply verbally; instead, he brushed her nose with his and then shifted the angle to nip at her bottom lip. His hands moved, one to the small of her back and the other sliding over stocking and the sensitive skin of her inner-thigh. Nat's thigh flexed under his fingers, and he could hear her breath alter pitch with anticipation. He knew that she could control it if she wanted, keep her breathing even and not make a sound at all. 

Her body was an instrument that ultimately only she had mastered, even if she let him take a turn or dozen. 

“What do you want?” Clint asked her, nuzzling her neck as his thumb brushed over her soaked underwear. 

“Tha-that's a step in the right direction.” Natasha was squirming against him as he rubbed his hand over the wet fabric, her breathing starting to stutter and shallow out. He'd have to take his hearing-aids out soon (and honestly they pissed him off when sounds became distorted, he'd rather not hear things at all), but for now, he just enjoyed the small sounds his wife made as he caressed and teased and made her writhe on the kitchen counter. Not that she was a passive recipient; as she twisted, she pulled him close, she nipped at his skin, she ran her hands over every part of his body that she could touch. 

“Hey,” Nat said, grabbing his hand out from between her legs and sucking his fingers. The feel of her mouth around his thumb sent a jolt straight to his groin, rinse and repeat four times.

“What?” he said. At least, he tried to say – he got as far as the first syllable before she wrapped her other leg around his hips and hauled him forward the last few inches until there was nothing between them clothes. The movement made the word catch in his throat, and when his hand slid down from her back to her ass to press her closer still, all he could utter was a brief groan. He was hard enough it was starting to ache, and god, the way she moved her hips against him wasn't helping. 

“I think,” she said, running her teeth lightly over the pad of his thumb, “that you need to get me into our bed.” 

“Uh-huh,” Clint managed, bowing his head to her shoulder and thrusting slightly. The friction felt amazing and really didn't fucking help, all at the same time. “I need, I need to take my aids out, so, if you're gonna tell me what to do-”

“I'm going to get you off.” Her voice was a hot whisper in his ear, and he could smell the perfume still clinging to her skin. “And I'm going to watch. And then you're going to use those really gorgeous hands and mouth on me until I tell you to stop.”

“I think those terms are acceptable,” Clint said with a straight-face, because it was the truth, and she laughed. Or, more accurately, giggled; Nat was a giggler when she was somewhere safe. 

She was also a hard lady to get off. Normally they didn't even bother with trying – they'd learned the hard way that a lot of deliberate trying lead to a lot of frustration. She'd made her peace with it, and he was firmly in the 'sex is fun for its own sake' school. 

But he had Plans; he just wasn't going to tell her them. 

“Soooo,” Nat went, kissing his neck before leaning back to look at him, “are you carrying me or am I walking?” 

“Walking.”

She pouted at him, and the fact that the expression existed was enough for it to be a play. Not that her bottom lip should go to waste, so he kissed her again. 

“Not very knightly of you,” she observed, a smile in the corner of her mouth.

“Baby doll,” Clint said with a laugh warming his voice, “we all have our limits.” 

“Very well,” Nat said, giving him a playful shove. “Then ladies first.”

“Trust me, I wouldn't have it any other way.”

She glanced him, entertained, before slipping off the counter. “Oh, I'm sure of that,” she said, leaning into him and then abruptly walking off. If her saunter in the office had been a by-product of her shoes, than this one was _very_ deliberate. 

Her legs looked like they went on forever thanks to the seam running up her stockings, and there was no way he'd ever complain about the view of her ass as she moved. None. Not possible. 

Clint strolled after her, loosening his tie as he walked and starting to unbutton his shirt. While he wasn't in any particular hurry, no sense in wasting time, either. Nat apparently had the same idea; when he walked into their bedroom, she'd already removed her black blouse, and was in the process of hanging it up. 

“There go my visions of being jumped by gorgeous women,” Clint observed, and she slanted him an amused look. 

“I know, I know, I'm _terrible_ ,” she confessed, letting her skirt drop to the floor. The lingerie underneath matched. It was Natasha, and she was wearing garters, and he _had_ been married to her for a while now. He'd even seen that set before. Of course it'd all match. 

No flimsy scraps of fabric here, no peek-a-boo panels for a show; everything was built to be comfortable and wearable for hours. But she was standing there in underwear both pretty and practical, all shiny lavender and black lace, and it was nothing that was dressing-up for _him_ , and Clint really loved her for it. 

“Completely terrible,” he said as Nat smiled and crouched down to pick up her skirt.

“That's me. I'd like you out of those clothes, too,” she added, voice casual. 

“Yes, ma'am.” His hands drop to his belt, and she looks quietly pleased. The skirt gets draped over the chair at her dresser, her earrings are taken off and placed in front of the mirror, and all the while, she doesn't look away. Under her hungry (totally hungry, despite the restraint that was as natural to her as breathing) gaze, he turns it into a bit of a show. Nothing that'd get him paid, but once upon a time, he made his career in the centre of a circus ring, under lights, performing for a crowd. 

All the aim'd get you nowhere if you didn't know how to put on a show. 

Not that there was a particularly sexy way to take off socks, but he'd long been okay with that. Besides, Nat stepped in close once he was completely naked, and her kiss was a tease to make even the most awkward of partners forget about socks. 

“You're still kinda dressed there, doll,” he commented against her mouth, and he felt her grin. 

“Thought you liked the boots, Barton.”

“Mmm, I've got plans for your feet. Need the boots off.” 

“Oh, well, _plans_...” Natasha was a performer, too, and she turned the act of walking over to the bed and sitting down into a whole body flirt. “If you can't carry me, you can take my boots off.”

“But you're not demanding,” he said with a huffed laugh. Still, it suited him fine, so instead of a snarky retort, Clint knelt at the foot of their bed and slowly unzipped one of her boots. He ran his hands over her foot, and pressing his thumb to the arch of her foot made her groan. He continued to press and massage, first one foot and the other, and by the time he was done, Nat was lying on the bed and whimpering with pleasure-relief. His hearing-aids, while SHIELD R&D issue, weren't up to the task of capturing all of the audio she was so deliciously creating, and it was an annoying reminder to take the aids out. He slowly got up, kissing her knee, then thigh, then the skin above her garter-belt

“You're ridiculously good at that,” Nat muttered, one hand over her eyes, and the other running her fingers through his hair.

“Talented hands.”

Another kiss to the swell of her left breast, and then her collar-bone, and then her mouth. He lingered there and Nat shifted underneath him, sliding her stockinged foot against his leg. 

“I'm debating,” she said, moving her hand to actually look at him. Propping herself up on her elbow, she caressed his jaw and kissed him deeply. “Reheat the pizza or just cold?”

“...you're such a _brat_.”

Nat grinned back at him and then sat up properly. “It's a valid question.”

“I'm taking my hearing-aids out and not replying. Because I have dignity.” 

Her laughter turned silent when he took his aids out, the grin lighting up her face as his ears stopped aching. He put the aids in the first drawer of his bedside table, and turned back to find Nat kicking back the covers of their bed, still pressing her mouth together in amusement. 

He could think of much better uses for her mouth, and reached out to grab her arm, tug her closer so he could kiss her. This time, Nat moved enthusiastically against him, wrapping her limbs around him and pulling him down onto the mattress. Without any sounds loud enough for his ears to register, he concentrated on everything else. 

It wasn't exactly a hardship. 

If he couldn't hear her breathing change as he palmed her breast, then he could still feel her nipple harden under his hand, and he could still see her swallow and arch her neck. Her skin was now faintly salty as he kissed the hollow of her throat, and she'd always smelt interesting. Citrus for her hair, something rich and spicy from her perfume, and underneath that, just a very aroused _Natasha_. The clips from her garters were digging into his thighs and ass, but given she had her legs wrapped him and was pressing him down into the junction of her thighs, Clint really fucking couldn't care less. 

He thrust against her, his dick just rubbing against her completely drenched underwear, and he felt the vibrations of her moan through his mouth on her throat. He was just able to reason that if she'd wanted him in her, she'd have taken various key articles of clothing off, so he didn't bother trying to shove things out of the way. Clint rocked into her again, and again, but before he could set up anything like a rhythm, he found himself flat on his back with Natasha sprawled out over him. 

“Oh, so it's like that, then,” he said, and she gave him an imperious look. 

“Like you're surprised,” she retorted, her enunciation clear enough that it wasn't hard to read her lips. Nat put her hand over his mouth to keep him from replying, and then started to kiss her way down his chest. Except 'kiss' was too simple a term for what she was using her mouth for. Between that and the way her body was sliding down his, she was killing him. She slid down far enough that her hand left his mouth, and her nails trailed down the line she'd just licked and sucked. Trailed, scratched lightly enough that it was all sensation without any evidence, and _fuck_. 

“Ta-a-a-ash-” his whine (totally a whine, he was secure enough in his masculinity to admit to it being a whine) was abruptly cut off when she curled her hand around his aching dick, her palm spit-slick. The way her shoulder shook against his thigh said she was laughing again, but then her fingers started doing these perfectly obscene things so hell if he was calling her out about it. 

Clint forced his eyes open to reach down to tangle his hand in her hair, and Nat raised her eyebrows at him. Her light make-up was smudged around the edges, her blush extended forever, and her gorgeous mouth was parted and swollen. He could just watch her, and that'd be a treat and a half, but she was a smouldering flame earlier and the urge to just shove her against something and feel her pressed against him hasn't abated. 

“C'mere?” 

Nat nodded, gracious as a duchess, and crawled back up the bed. She took her time about it, lingering over all the sensitive parts of his body to make him writhe. Which he didn't. She was torturing him for her own perverted reasons, and he could just lie perfectly still just to thwart her.

Except for the way his dick twitched, but then it'd always been a traitor to the cause. 

Finally, she settled herself on him, her legs between his and – for a moment – one of her hands pinning his wrist above his head. Then she canted her own head slightly and shook her head, releasing him. It was bizarrely adorable, and he pulled her down to kiss her. Nat licked her way into his mouth, squirming against him. Clint wasn't even aware of what she was doing until she stopped and fuck yes. Her closed thighs were slippery with sweat and arousal, and this time his dick was snug between them. 

Nat propped herself up on her arms and rolled her hips. He wasn't too far gone that he didn't notice the way her eyelashes fluttered at whatever that felt like to her, and he didn't even stop himself from grinning at her. 

She rolled her eyes at him, and then shimmied a bit. He had no idea what he was saying at that point, because oh god, _fuck_. Nat shimmied her thighs, she thrust against him, and he answered by jerking his hips upwards as he gripped her ass because she needed to keep doing that. The whole world was Natasha, and she needed to be closer and closer and never stop. 

Natasha, Tasha, Tasha Tashatasha and he was sure he was saying that out loud now. She kissed him, and the words in his head stuttered to a stop because the movement threw off their beat. It was enough that he opened his eyes, and all he could see was the red of her hair. Groaning partly in frustration, Clint rolled them over again and right, right, close to the edge of the bed, gotta keep an eye on _that_. Nat threw her hand up to brace against the headboard and she bucked underneath him, twisting and writhing, sliding her thighs together until he just pressed his face against her shoulder and kept thrusting his hips down. Their movements quickened, roughened, hers both matching his and egging him on. Her free hand pulled at him, shoulders and back and ass and up again. He could feel the vibrations as she talked and he was so close, so close, until she did one last shimmying glide of her slick thighs and suddenly everything was star-speckled white and shockwaves tumbling through his nerves. 

He rolled off her and lay on the bed, eyes closed and gasping in the aftermath. Nat pressed a kiss to his shoulder, murmured something against his skin before the mattress dipped as she moved off to do something. Doing things seemed very out of the picture for him in the post-orgasm haze, but then she was a strange creature whose bones hadn't been turned to water. 

She came back soon, curling around him, and his eyes flew open. 

No garter-belt, no underwear, no bra, and he'd had _plans_ , hadn’t he, about the absence of the first two. Awesome plans to reduce Nat's thought-process to nothing but sex-possessed begging. 

Give him a moment, and he was totally going to put that plan into action. 

Clint shifted and reached out to find her hand. Curling his fingers around it, she let him lift her hand and guide it to his mouth. He kissed her fingers, her palm, the motions gentle and almost reverent. His tongue darted out against the sensitive skin on the underside of her wrist, and he glanced across at her face in time to see her bite down on a smile, her cheeks pink. 

That called for a kiss to her mouth, slow and lingering. Her hands were impatient as she tugged at him, her legs tangling with his, and the way her body moved was pretty insistent. 

“Patience,” he told her, “is a virtue.”

He's pretty sure Nat told him to fuck off in Swedish from the shapes her mouth made, and he grinned at her. He ghosted his mouth and hand down her body, taking his time about it. By now, Nat's body was fairly familiar to him. He knew the dip of her belly-button, and was familiar with the faint silvery scars marking her skin, the only remaining evidence of wounds turned into nothing but lines by the plastic surgeon's skill. They were another interesting visual on a woman full of them. All her lean muscles were sheathed in just enough flesh that she appeared to be made out of nothing but curves and sloping lines, nothing sharp there at all. She reminded him of the circus with the con-artists and illusionists; a flash of cape from the costumed girl, and your wallet was replaced by a rabbit. And like the circus, Nat was endlessly fascinating. 

Not that there was anything sleight of hand about the way she was reacting to him. No, that was all honest Natasha, spreading her legs and unwilling to keep her hips flat on the bed. He kissed her inner-thigh, and she dug her fingers impatiently into his shoulder. When he finally placed his mouth on her wet folds, her hips jerked up into his face. Another time, he'd just answer Nat rough for rough, fucking her with his mouth and tongue as she fucked his face, and he'd enjoy every moment of it. But tonight, he had a Plan. 

Instead of urging her to greater heights, as Clint licked and sucked, he constantly eased her back. He never spent too long at either labia or clit, breaking off to kiss her thighs or abdomen if she started getting tense or digging her heel into his back. It wasn't just to savour the scent and taste and feel of her, either, although that was something he'd never get tired of. He knew her, and he'd made a study over the years of what seemed likely to get her off. Nat being a languid mess was the second item on his list (the first being: when the planets aligned), and he was skilled enough that he could make sure she plateaued into her pleasure instead of soaring towards it. 

By the time her legs were limp over his shoulders and her fingers were barely managing to trace lazy patters through his hair, his jaw was aching. He moved, then, crawling up the bed and resettling himself beside her. Nat's eyes were closed and she was smiling as she tugged his head down to kiss him, licking the taste of herself off his chin. Cautiously, Clint slid his hand up her thigh, watching her face as he went higher and higher. It wasn't until his fingers were in amongst the soaked curls his face had so recently been buried that her eyes flickered open. Nat raised her eyebrows at him, but she nodded her head. It was all the encouragement he needed – if it got too overwhelming, she'd tell him to stop with three taps to whatever body part was closest. 

Permission granted, Clint set to work in earnest. If his mouth had been a gentle tease to relax her in a haze of pleasure, then his fingers set her to bucking against his hand. He didn't need to hear her to have an idea of the sounds Nat letting herself make, the visuals were more than clue enough. She was squirming on their bed, twisting and bunching the sheets, her mouth open and face flushed. 

Except as her movements became more frantic, he realised that he _could_ hear her. Not very loudly, but what was registered was Nat swearing, her voice high and pleading. Begging. Begging in a polyglot stew of language with the occasional, “Fuck, Clint, _please_ ” clearly able to be made out. She grabbed his hand between her legs and held him there, nails digging in with a desperate attempt to make sure he didn't stop. 

Stopping was the very _last_ thing he wanted to do. 

Then Nat screamed, arching her back before collapsing, shuddering with the force of her orgasm. Her grip around his wrist went slack and he twisted his hand around to lace their fingers. Bringing their enjoined hands up, he kissed hers, and then her forehead. She curled into him, pulling her hand free to push him onto his back so she could half-sprawl over him, nuzzling his neck. Clint wrapped his arms around, feeling exhausted and smug. Oh, yeah, he did good.

Nat was a screamer when she was that into being turned on; not always when she orgasmed, but always when her brain was not thinking enough to get her to restrain herself. He fucking _loved it_

But, man, he hoped the neighbours were away. 

Clint didn't realise he'd said that out loud until Nat pressed her hand to her mouth, her body shaking in helpless laughter. Which set him off, so they were both just giggling in the middle of their ruined bed, sweat and other sex-related fluids drying into a sticky mess over their bodies and the sheets. 

Shower, he thought absently. A shower sounded amazing. And dinner. And then stripping the bed. But all of that required moving, as in getting up and pulling away from Nat. 

Yeah, that could wait. 

– – 

He woke when the sheets were tugged from under him. Frowning in confusion, Clint opened his eyes to find Nat wearing nothing but a towel, sheet firmly in hand. She still had beads of water on her skin, and red tendrils of hair had escaped from her towel-turban. 

“Hi,” she said, her mouth curving at the edges of the word. “You need a shower.” 

Clint wasn't sure what his face did, except that a dimple flashed in the corner of her mouth, casting her neutral expression with amusement. 

She added something about pizza, but he was sleepy enough that he missed reading most of what she said. Then Nat pointed with her free hand to his bedside table. There was a fresh glass of water resting next to his Louis L'Amour, but when he turned to offer his thanks, she'd already moved to the dresser to find some clean underwear. 

He said it anyway, and she flashed him a smile over her shoulder. 

By the time he'd finished his shower – stretched out to nearly five minutes, just because he was in that awesome a mood – and walked back into the bedroom, the bed had been stripped of its sheets and Nat was gone. 

Finding the old pair of jeans he'd been wearing recently and a shirt worn to comfortableness, Clint wandered out into the living area. Nat was in the kitchen, peering at the oven impatiently. 

“We could've had it cold,” he commented, and she glanced at him. Her eyes went to the hearing-aids hooked over his ears, and then she made a face at him before turning back to the oven.

“Heathen,” Nat said, voice clear. He chuckled, and walked over to sit at one of the bar stools at the kitchen counter. 

“Practical,” he countered. 

“The cost of my acquiescence has always been hot. _Food_ ,” she clarified with a rueful expression as he smirked at her. 

“Unless it's ice-cream.”

“Unless my price is ice-cream,” Nat allowed. Her face had been scrubbed clean of all make-up, and under the shirt she'd stolen from him, she obviously wasn't wearing a bra. Her still damp hair was left hanging loose, and she was soft, like this. The woman in his office hours before had been a strikingly hot bombshell, but he preferred Natasha like this: looking closer to her actual age of thirty-five, and relaxed. 

“Plates or straight from the box?” she asked, and then arched her eyebrows at his expression. 

Clint felt himself smile and, sure, blame it on the post-coital hormones, but he knew the expression was soft and a bit stupid. But he held out his hand to her anyway. Nat smiled at him, broader than her normal expressions and cheeks faintly pink, and put her hand on his. Raising their hands, he kissed her knuckles. 

“Box,” he said. His heart was doing something complicated that both felt good and painful, but he was used to that, too. He knew what it meant, and had no great urge to say anything about it. 

“Excellent choice,” she replied, because she could read the harmonics of his voice and because she'd only rarely felt the urge to comment herself. Then she looked a little more sincere. “Thank you.”

She wasn't talking about the pizza or his choice of eating utensils, so all he did was smile back. “Any time.”


End file.
